


That Extra Glance

by purpletheory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-19
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-13 20:18:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,768
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3395036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purpletheory/pseuds/purpletheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock catches sight of something he hasn't seen before and it prompts him to watch John more closely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Extra Glance

Sherlock glances over then away, impatient. Then he looks back again, with an almost visceral expression on his face. His grip loosened on the window sill and his jaw slackened in a manner unlike his usual composure. Through the hallway Sherlock could see, the door to John's room was slightly ajar. There was a strip of vision available, and he could just barely see into it. He widened his eyes as he brought all of the images he was seeing into his mind palace. This would require detailed attention - later. The door was just ajar enough for the consulting detective to be able to glimpse the other man while he dressed. Sherlock had yelled at him to hurry with his shower and in his haste he only shut the door part way and Sherlock glanced over just in time to see the towel that had been loosely draping his middle, fall away. John was hurriedly trying to get pants on, his backside towards Sherlock. The man made a small noise in the back of his throat as he watched the man jumping in a small circle trying to pull the pants up over his still damp knees. Just as he turned towards Sherlock, still in the nude mostly, the detective broke away from the window sill and jumped towards the stairs. "Come on, John," He sing-songed from the stairwell. His heart was thumping wildly and his pulse rushed through his ears. His thick pea coat felt too warm in the drafty entry hall. He heard John muttering as he fumbled with his boots, an arm peeking out into his vision as it was trying to navigate the neck-hole of a jumper. Sherlock took three very deep breaths and straightened his scarf. Whatever he had just seen and whatever his unusual reaction had been, he could analyze in great detail, later. After the case! John all but tumbled down the stairs, his shoulders fighting into a jacket.

"Ready, John?" Sherlock shouted as he whirled down the stairs, out the door and into the busy street, the sounds of John huffing to keep up right behind him.

Sherlock and John usually walked to their cases, rarely taking a cab unless Sherlock's talents were sorely needed. The expenses proved too frivolous for either of them to afford and John got much too frustrated with the deductions that flew from the detective's lips while he was unoccupied in a vehicle. At least walking the deductions were kept more at a minimum. Sherlock smirked as he thought of John's standard reaction, "Is nothing to be private around you?" And he would reply, "But John, Privacy is boring." John would shake his head as if affronted for those he was exposing but Sherlock couldn't miss the little smile that came out on his lips.

So they walked.

Usually this consisted of Sherlock walking briskly ahead with John trying to at least keep sight of his tall figure as to not get lost. Sherlock pushed ahead of John, letting the cool London air clear his head of images of John's accidental indecent exposure from earlier. He breathed deeply, While he was still somewhat frazzled by the sight and by his reaction, he tried not to let it show as he rattled off something about the man on the bicycle to their immediate left.

John rushed to catch up, scolding, "You could at least wait 'til they're out of earshot before exclaiming that you know about their secret love affair, you great twit!"

Sherlock looked bemused at his short companion, trying to figure out how he remained so sensitive to social propriety while in constant contact with Sherlock's blatant disregard for it. Sherlock let the man catch up, and as they walked abreast of each other, he glanced at him periodically.

"What is it now? Have you discovered that I am also having an affair simply by the color of my bicycle?!"

Sherlock said nothing as he watched the lights from the shop signs catch in John's animated eyes. He didn't look at John much. When he mentioned this, he watched as those animated eyes dimmed and the shorter man sighed, "Thanks a lot Sherlock, now I know I'm unattractive."

"Oh really? Since when has my definition of attractive or anything for that matter been standard or by any means normal? Also, Just because I do not look at you does not mean I deem you unattractive."

John stuttered in his step, falling behind easily. Sherlock was several paces ahead of him when John finally scuttled back up beside him the next question leaving his lips in a hurried breath, "So I AM attractive then?"

The dark-haired man looked down at him quizzically, amused by the man's earnest face and again struck by his lack of watching John. Oh he knew John, he could play his mind rather easily. He felt John, when grabbing his arm or the hand on his shoulder letting him know he had his back.

"My opinion or the majority's?"

"Both," John slowed a little, and Sherlock consciously did as well to accommodate the man, thinking that he rarely did anything without realizing it was happening and why.

"Well because of the 'masses' of women you have dated, one can assume you are attractive to the female populations. As for the males, it's obvious by the way that one is ogling you by that flower pot there. We can therefore conclude that you are attractive to the male populations as well. John stopped abruptly, looking wildly around. Sherlock held out a hand, pointing to the man and seemingly signaling the low whistle of appreciation as the man looked unmistakably at John's backside as they walked past. John sped up, trying to get away from his embarrassment, his face beet red, "Sherlock!" He whisper-shouted.

"What?" Sherlock looked over at him, collected and bored. He watched John's face as he collected his thoughts and then remembered that he had also asked for Sherlock's personal opinion. "Well what do you-"

Sherlock held up a hand as they came out onto the sidewalk that ran parallel with the Thames. "Ah. I thought we'd never get here, with your stopping and starting." John shut up as Sherlock jumped the railing and strode down the ravine to the bank. He could hear as John tried to follow suit, not having much of an advantage with his shorter limbs. By the time John joined them, Sherlock had already bulled past Anderson, ignoring him entirely and had come to a stop inside the first tent that had been erected. Sherlock took in the entire scene at a glance, filing everything. He heard John gasp as he entered, but he focused on the girl lying on the rocky bank in front of him. Circling the body he called out his observations.

"Young. 20-25. Had an eating disorder. Bulimia. Neck wound, serrated knife, made after she had been dead for awhile. Maybe 20 min? It appears that she is being mocked as if she is a puppet. Strings tying her limbs in an awkward fashion, stick above her head with the strings stapled to it. Oak. Finished and sanded. Sold as picketing at particularly the hardware stores on the east side who cater to protestors. John?"

When he was met with silence, he turned to look at the man. His blue eyes were riveted on the woman's face. Sherlock had already noticed that the woman's mouth had been turned up some sort of wire in a gruesome facsimile of a smile. He circled back to John and bent to quietly ask for a cause of death in his ear. The army doctor in him bolted into action. As he knelt by the girl, Sherlock turned to the man in the back of the tent, "Were there not two?"

Lestrade had that stupid look on his face again – which when did he never? – But he turned on his heel to walk out of the tent at Sherlock's prompting eyebrow, "Right. This way."

Sherlock followed the graying man over to the other tent that had been erected and pointedly snubbed Sally Donovan by turning his nose up at her proffered clipboard.

Clipboards. Pretentious things.

He strode into the scene and almost balked at the smell that greeted him. In front of him lay what appeared to be a homeless man. He waited until John rushed in, watching his strong reaction to the sight and smell.

"Well?"

John tore his eyes away from the sight and Sherlock watched as his eyes lost some of their frantic light and he cleared his throat audibly.

"Right. Well. The girl died somewhere between four or five in the morning of, strangely, drowning."

Sherlock gestured to the man in front of them and John reluctantly bent down to check the body.

"Let me guess. Not drowning?" Sherlock asked in a bored tone.

"No… it's hard to tell from the deterioration but I am going to have to say it was-"

"Poison." Sherlock said and John echoed stupidly after him.

"Yes. How did you know?"

Sherlock smirked inwardly. It was amazing to him that John still remained as genuinely astounded by his abilities as the first time he demonstrated them for the army man.

"He has bile leaking from his mouth and nose and the smell beneath the dead flesh is that of some type of rat poison. Magnesium Phosphide perhaps."

John gaped at him and then back at his tall companion.

Lestrade, who had been silent up until this point asked, "Well what's the connection between the two deaths?"

"There is no connection Greg!" The curly haired detective whirled out of the tent to escape the smell and went back into the tent containing the girl.

"Do you know anything about tides, Anderson?" Sherlock questioned upon seeing him inside the tent, hopefully NOT touching anything.

John and Lestrade bumbled in and waited for the detective's reasoning.

Anderson fumbled around with a pitiful Wikipedia drenched reply that Sherlock talked over anyway, "Of course you don't. The homeless man has been dead at least a week and based on the corpse deterioration he was carried here on the tide this early morning. Sometime around 1:30. He is not a murder victim but simply a man who ate the wrong cheese out of the garbage.

"Now she… She is another story. You're looking for a short man living on the east side who has a penchant for women who either work at the dance studio between Piccadilly and Air St. or dance there. Maybe he lives near there. He will be middle-aged and have some type of lower-body injury that prevents normal gait," Sherlock paused to gleefully take in the open-mouths of the two behind him and the soured expression of Anderson's face. "If you hurry, maybe you can prevent this from happening again."

He turned and brushed out of the tent, feeling satisfied with himself. He left the scene, walking briskly up the bank, waiting for John's scurried gait to follow. He smirked when he heard the short man running up to him and he pulled his arm as soon as he got close enough into his long reach. He continued up the walk that he has disregarded earlier, pulling the short-legged doctor behind him. By this point in their relationship John knew not to bug him yet about how he knew all the rest of that information. He just sighed and stumbled hurriedly along behind his companion. When Sherlock came upon one of his favorite coffee shops, he let go of John, opened the door and ushered him in. As soon as they sat down, John blew out a deep breath, trying to get his lungs caught up. The man working at the counter quickly began to brew the pair's usual order without being told, wary of the scathing remarks that the tall man was capable of. Sherlock said nothing until his tea was steaming pleasantly in front of him.

"Well?"

John cocked his head in amusement, "Even after all this time, you still want me to ask the same way, don't you?" The shorter man chuckled good-naturedly and sighed, "Ok, So how did you know all that extra stuff about the murderer?"

"I'm glad you asked. I knew that he was a short man with an odd gait based on the marks all around the body and the space between those marks."

John breathed out unevenly in appreciation, "What about the dance studio and the girls?"

"Well that was more coincidental knowledge. I saw that girl in the ad section of those silly magazines you like to read about this long-standing dance studio that's recently moved location to somewhere near Piccadilly Circus. She must have worked there or was a model for them."

John nodded and tried to give him a high-five.

Sherlock just looked at him and stated, "Take your physical contact elsewhere, John."

John looked rather put out so Sherlock reluctantly raised his hand. John smiled widely and smacked their hands together gently. Sherlock grabbed his hand and put it on the table between them.

"You've been biting your nails. You only bite your nails when you've been to the psychiatrist. But you haven't. The only other explanation-" he paused as John took his hand back and looked at his nails.

"You've been having night terrors again."

John blushed and looked around them. He shook his head affirmatively before looking down and stirring his tea a little.

Sherlock just studied him for a moment and then sent his mind towards his own tea. They sat in silence until both of them were ready to leave. Sherlock pushed his hands into his coat and strode out the door, leaving the door to be handled by his flat mate. John hurried after him exclaiming, "I don't know why you always let the door hit me after you!"

They were almost to the apartment when John stopped walking. Sherlock looked back only because of the change in behavior. John always followed him.

"You never answered my question."

"Yes I did. I told you all about the murder." Sherlock began to walk again.

John caught his wrist to turn his attention back on him, "No, I mean from earlier."

Sherlock knew exactly what he was talking about but he always enjoyed playing with John. Especially in situations where his cheeks became red in embarrassment. He quirked an eyebrow waiting for the man to 'fill him in' on what he was talking about. John was no coward though and even if he felt embarrassed he would always bull forward.

"You were going to tell me what you thought about my attractiveness level."

Sherlock took in all the signs that John felt invested in his answer. John held his breath, he leaned forward a little, his eyes shone with an impatient light and he still held onto Sherlock's wrist where he could feel a higher pulse start up through the contact. It wasn't his own.

"No, I wasn't," He said with a little smile and continued to the door of 221B and up the stairs to their flat. He heard John groan and follow him up. He flung his coat off and went straight for his room. To his mild surprise, John followed him. The short man leaned on his door frame in what was probably a gesture to provide the idea that he wasn't anxious. Sherlock immediately went about undressing with the intent on redressing in pajamas and his dressing robe. It was chilly outside and he wished to play the violin. All the while as his clothes hit the floor in messy piles, he was aware of John's reaction to his sudden disrobing. John had turned abruptly around to give him privacy but Sherlock saw that his head was turned slightly so that his peripheral view would allow him to watch the tall man. Sherlock smirked. Once he had his change of clothes on, he turned and pushed John from his doorway. Brushing past him he said, "Yes, I find you appealing." Then with a smirk he added, "As well."

John spluttered through exclamations of shock as Sherlock quickly took up his beloved instrument and began to play, drowning out any response from the doctor and closed his eyes to focus on the melody. He resolves to watch John more often. It's an activity more interesting than he first thought. He had an interesting day of observing the Doctor and later he could reopen the case of what he saw earlier and his reaction to it.

But for now, Music.


End file.
